


In Love and War

by pinpricktrick



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Family, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Pregnancy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinpricktrick/pseuds/pinpricktrick
Summary: As a rebellion threatens the fragile peace of united Albion, King Arthur and Queen Gwenhwyfar must each come to terms with their flawed relationships--and what a shift in allegiances means for their kingdom and their family.Non-magical AU.





	In Love and War

Peace is easy to ask for, hard to fight for, harder to win. Gwen knows this as she kisses Arthur goodbye and watches him mount his white horse, its hooves stamping the ground impatiently. He pats its neck, but it throws its head, mouth working at the bit, whinnying.

"Even he does not wish to go to battle," Gwen says, forcing a smile.

"But even he will know if he has no choice."

As has happened an uncomfortable number of times these past few months, Gwen has no response. She is spared one as a brown horse trots up nearby, reins led by a man who has never quite outgrown his gangly limbs, his childlike earnestness. "Take care of Camelot while we're gone," Merlin says.

"Take care of Arthur while I'm gone," Gwen replies. The two share a smile; Merlin gives her shoulder an encouraging pat, and she pulls him into a brief sisterly hug before he, too, mounts his dun and prepares to disappear.

"I will be back, Gwenhwyfar," Arthur tells her. "I promise."

She watches the king ride from the courtyard with Merlin at his side. She can picture the knights streaming out behind them, a tide of silver armor and fluttering cloaks. A flagbearer waves the scarlet banner with the gold emblem of a dragon, to give the people hope and their enemies despair.

"Do you?" she murmurs, and turns away.

\--

The night is quiet, spangled with the flickering tension of stars. Arthur calls for the men to halt and make camp in the woods; he can march them no farther today than he has already. He sends Merlin to water the horses and sets out to gather firewood.

This particular rebellion is small, on the outskirts of Albion. Arthur thinks a little guiltily that perhaps it was inevitable. He did not mean to neglect these villages, and though his people mean everything to him, his attentions in the past few months were not focused on their wants. He dumps an armload of wood and scouts for another. If he is lucky, the very appearance of the king himself might stifle the insurgency. But he is not counting on this, and if it comes to battle--as he suspects it will--he must fight. Dissent is contagious. He cannot risk the infection of other towns.

Arthur deposits one more armful of wood and takes another a little ways apart from the men, to make his own small fire. Reassurring talks, short speeches to raise the morale of the men, can wait until tomorrow. For now he coaxes flame from embers, listening to the gentle snap and pop of sap in the heat.

Soft as a shadow, Merlin sits down next to him. Even when Arthur was crowned king and knew that traditionally the squires would serve him, he elected to keep Merlin in this position instead, officially as an advisor, though all Camelot knows he is still a manservant, too. Arthur is ever surprised at how one moment the man is bumbling hopelessly about his chambers and the next, wordlessly offering exactly what his king needs. He is in many ways an enigma, an open book written in a script Arthur is still learning to read.

"So you think the rebels will fight, sire?" Merlin asks hesitantly.

"Yes, I do."

"And you mean to fight them back."

"A king must show mercy, but he cannot show weakness. If they will not listen to me, perhaps they'll listen to my sword."

The firelight throws gold light and stark shadows on Merlin's downcast face. As he looks at him Arthur's heart skips a beat for no reason he can discern, and he has to consciously focus on his manservant's next words. "I'm always astounded by how often reasonable men put away reason."

Arthur's eyebrows rise. "You consider the rebels reasonable?"

"No, but you certainly are." Merlin looks up and grins at the king's expression, then leans back to avoid the lazy fist that follows.

"Hurry up and cook dinner, Merlin, or all you'll have to eat are your own words."

\--

Gwen had hoped Arthur would send word of his progress, but she does not hear from him until nearly a fortnight later, when a short letter arrives with a courier, informing her that the rebellion has been successfully crushed and the villagers' grievances addressed. In truth, Gwen is not sure exactly why or how the rebellion even began. She makes a point of knowing the goings-on of the kingdom, but Arthur has told her little of these events and littler of their progress. When he rides into the courtyard, bedraggled but unhurt, she sends the chambermaids up to prepare his bath and hurries to meet him.

"Gwenhwyfar," he says as she appears before him. He dismounts and she holds out her hands to him. He passes the reins to Merlin, standing conveniently ready to take them, and watches for a moment as his advisor leads the two horses away to the stables. Then he turns back to Gwen, his hands rising to meet her own.

"The battle went well, I trust?"

"It was only a small rebellion."

But Gwen knows the look in his eyes, the same one he wears every time he's disappointed in himself. "Whom did you lose?"

Arthur hesitates before he answers. "Eight, including Sir Calogrenant."

Gwen sucks in a breath. Not just a soldier, but a Knight of the Round Table. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"So am I."

She looks at him for a moment, sensing that he is hiding something. But she does not push him, not so soon after the battle, only wraps him in her arms. After a moment, he slowly returns the embrace.

\--

Within a week, another rebellion has sprung up, and two days after that, another just two days' ride from the first. Arthur stays in Camelot this time, sending a few men-at-arms and common soldiers to deal with them. Merlin finds him pacing back and forth in the empty throne room, taut and uncomfortable.

"You suspected the rebellion would spread, didn't you," Merlin says as he steps through the doorway.

Arthur doesn't even look up. "I only regret it was so soon," he mutters, half to himself. "And I'm trapped here. This spring drought shows no signs of stopping, there are trade routes to map and other matters to see to..."

"You could let Gwen take care of the problems here. She's smart and knows the common people well. I'm sure she wouldn't let you down."

But Arthur is shaking his head. "I will not lay the burden of the kingdom on her shoulders when she already carries the burden of my child."

Merlin stares at him, his voice catching. "Your...child?"

Now Arthur stops pacing. His brow furrows as his eyes meet his manservant's. "Didn't I tell you? Gwen is with child."

Merlin tries not to let his expression betray him. He swallows and nods. "How long?" he manages to ask.

"About three months, now."

"Well...congratulations." He smiles, a little crookedly, but his words are sincere.

"Thank you."

A few seconds of silence pass. At last Merlin clears his throat. "If you need any help, with anything, just let me know."

"I know I can count on you."

Arthur's eyes capture Merlin's and hold them, just a little too long. For an instant there is a flicker of something--uncertainty? pleading?--in his gaze. But it is so quick to come and go that as Merlin backs out of the room he does not know if that flicker was intended for him or for Arthur's thoughts alone.

\--

The drought plods on, fueling further uprisings. Arthur has little time to discuss matters with Gwen, but when he does have time she does not seek him out.

A man emerges at the head of the rebels, by the name of Galehaut. One hot and dusty day indistinguishable from the ones previous an exhausted boy arrives from an outlying village and informs Arthur that Galehaut has invaded and claimed the territory as his own, levying a tax on the people and inserting armed soldiers to keep a curfew. It was a miracle the boy managed to leave the village at all. It is then that the king knows he must ride forth to meet the rebels, or forfeit his united kingdom forever.

Gwen pleads with him not to go. He explains it is only a first confrontation, that he does not intend to fight if he can avoid it (though he does not expect he can), that he will address the issue and return to Camelot immediately. He hates to do it, but he asks her to work with his advisors to take care of matters here. Of course she accepts, and he promises he will not be gone long, that he will be home for the birth of their child.

"Surely you'll be back well before then? The baby is not due for another four months."

"I should be back in a fortnight," he assures her, and then he is gone again.

\--

The straggling line of soldiers that files back to Camelot a month later is weary and beaten as a carthorse in the hands of an impatient driver. Arthur fights to keep the despair from his face, knowing the people will look to him for their support, fearing that he will be unable to give them what they seek.

He meant to discuss matters with Galehaut. Instead he walked into an ambush, swift and deadly, and left with a handful of ghosts and a parchment with many words but little message. Riding back through the gates into the city, Arthur crumples the note in his fist. How is he supposed to communicate with an enemy that will not communicate with him?

"Time and patience," Merlin advises later that day as they sit down for an afternoon meal. They are ravenous after the wearying march home. "You might have to fight in the meantime, but you'll be able to negotiate in the future. An ideal can't fool reality for long."

"Would you mind rephrasing that? I don't think you were vague enough."

Arthur's sarcasm bites, but Merlin knows it isn't personal. "Wait until he learns what he needs instead of what he wants."

They eat without speaking for a while. Bread, water, and fruit are never so welcome as after an arduous journey. With a fresh roll raised halfway to his mouth, Arthur suddenly looks at Merlin, his eyes revealing that an important realization has just crossed his mind. "I haven't faced Gwen yet today."

"Then you should go see her."

Arthur does not move. "What would I tell her? Our efforts failed and many men were killed, among them Sir Palamedes? I don't have the first idea what to do about Galehaut? I couldn't bother her with that."

"How would telling her what you feel bother her?"

He voices no reply.

Merlin studies his face, and it hits him then. "You haven't talked with her much about anything at all, lately, have you," he says quietly.

The king looks like he wants to deny the statement, but in the end he cannot. His silence tells Merlin all he needs to know.

"You don't trust her with your problems anymore."

"She doesn't trust me with hers."

"It could be the pregnancy. Not exactly an area of male expertise."

"No, it's been longer than that." Arthur pauses and takes a drink, then stands up and begins to wander aimlessly, speaking as much to himself as to his companion. "I couldn't possibly tell her, because the worst part is"--he stops and looks directly at Merlin--"I don't feel like I need her the same way I used to. Or used to think I did."

Their gazes lock for a second, and then Merlin sits back, letting this sink in, for the first time asking himself why Arthur is telling him this. He's not sure what to say--or if he should say anything at all. He is silent for so long that he almost jumps when Arthur returns to the table and violently stabs a carrot with a knife.

"What are you thinking, Merlin? That this is all somehow my fault?" Arthur's voice is an arrowhead, sharpened yet worn.

"No, just that I hope you do what's right, for the sake of Gwen and your unborn child both."

"I want peace and unity. And if I have to go back to war to get them, I will. Isn't that right?"

"Peace won through war isn't truly peace, sire. Respite, maybe, but not peace."

Arthur wonders sometimes where a servant learned such...wisdom, for lack of a more appropriate word. "Do you believe war is ever right?"

Merlin thinks about this, allowing himself a small sip of whatever liquid is in front of him. The drought has made him conscious of his water consumption, and he intends to make this cup last as long as possible. At last he says, "Nobody wants war, but it's inevitable. It may be the only way to protect your kingdom from harm. It may be the only way to right a greater injustice. It may be an act for your people as much as for your enemies. It may pave the way for true peace. And truthfully, the only way to get through some thick skulls is to crack them. Not yours, of course," he adds with a grin as Arthur shoots him a look of mock offense. "I mean, sometimes. The skull part, not the cracking. That is, I have other ways of getting through a thick head, seeing as I can't stand to crack skulls myself."

Arthur fights a laugh and fails. He is feeling better now--being with Merlin always does that--but he cannot help from asking, "If you hate skull-cracking so much, why do you ride to battle with me?"

"I trust you," Merlin says simply. "And I couldn't leave you."

Arthur throws his head up and looks at the sky to hide the fond smile he cannot repress. A wisp of cloud--the first in weeks--floats overhead. He heaves an exaggerated sigh. "You really are an idiot, Merlin."

"Only when you're around, sire."

\--

Gwen is tired and sore. The regular nausea, at least, is gone, but the pain in her lower back reminds her every morning that she lives now for two. She cannot decide if she would rather wear loose gowns to hide the bump or fitting ones to remind her husband of the child that will soon join their family. In the end her chambermaid chooses for her.

The breeze is gentle, but the sky is still as Gwen goes for a walk in the royal garden, alone. Arthur and Merlin are out hunting with a small party, tracking down the night's supper. She has no desire to watch them take life, now that she is in the process of nurturing one of her own.

"My lady Gwenhwyfar," says a quiet voice behind her, and she turns in surprise to find a familiar knight in daily wear coming up the path behind her, his dark eyes bright, the smile on his face polite but genuine. "It is a pleasure to see you here." He bows low, takes her hand, and presses a kiss on the back.

"Sir Lancelot," she says, delighted at the prospect of his company. It has been many weeks since she has caught him alone. "How many times must I tell you to call me Gwen?"

"At least as many as you already have." He straightens. "How fares the child?"

"Temperamental." But she says it affectionately, as she lays her fingers lightly on Lancelot's proffered arm and they start down the path together.

"And you? How do you do?"

"Well enough."

Lancelot is not fooled; he can see the slight shift in her expression, the sudden inexplicable depth in her eyes. "How well, my lady?" he queries softly.

She looks at him, then down at the purple ruffles of her skirt and at the dust that rises in little puffs with each step she takes. "Well enough for Arthur."

"Is that well enough for you?"

"Perhaps it should be."

They walk on, past the branches of the trees that should be exploding with emerald foliage. Instead a few pale green leaves cling desperately to the branches like drowning sailors to planks of wood. "Has he done something to you?" Lancelot says at last, concerned.

"Oh, no," Gwen hastens to reassure him. "It's more a matter of what he hasn't done." The knight watches her expectantly, and with a sigh she murmurs, "He does not come to me anymore. He probably thinks I am under too much pressure carrying this child to take on his emotional burden as well."

"But you do not go to him either. Perhaps you, too, believe he is under too much pressure to address your concerns."

Gwen is startled by how quickly Lancelot perceives this. Yet she knows the truth delves much further, into muddied depths even she cannot clear. "I suppose I just wish things could go back to the way they were."

"Things rarely stay the same way for long. Some changes are small, some great. And though they may be unwanted at the time, most are for the better." Suddenly Lancelot stops and draws his arm from Gwen's. She is too short to peer over his shoulder even as he stoops down, but when he stands back up and turns around she sees that he is holding a single white flower in his fingers. Gingerly he offers it to her with a small bow. "I present my lady with the first bloom of the season," he says, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

Gwen takes the blossom from him and wonders if it is appropriate to put it in her hair. In the end she carries it between her thumb and forefinger, twirling its stem and watching the delicate petals perform a spinning dance in her hands.

\--

Arthur spends two months planning his campaign. Galehaut has been suspiciously silent; he suspects the rebel is mustering his forces, setting up a government, preparing a defense. But for all he knows the elusive man is gathering an army to rival Camelot's, in numbers if not in training. Secretly he hopes there are only few people willing to join the rebellion, but he is well aware of the difference between hope and likelihood.

At last a letter arrives from Galehaut, a cryptic note stuck into the back of one of Arthur's messengers with a crossbow bolt. In the throne room, over dinner, talk is dominated by the rebellion. The knights are at first uneasy, but Arthur calms them by appearing confident and controlled. Yet as they file out of the room, he feels his certainty fraying, and slumps over the table, reading the message over and over again as though he expects the words to change.

"Merlin, what do you make of this?" says Arthur, thrusting the note into his manservant's hands.

Merlin gives it a perfunctory scan. He's already read it a dozen times and heard Arthur read it a dozen more. "I think he's threatening to secede."

"I think so too," the king replies grimly.

"And I think he won't be happy unless his new kingdom grows."

Arthur snatches back the sheet and reads it again. "He's going to secede, and then he's going to invade my lands!" He grits his teeth, wanting nothing more than to rip the paper into several pieces and throw them in the fire, Galehaut be damned. Instead he smashes his fist into the table. A goblet slides off the end and clatters on the floor, spilling wine over the rushes. "How can everything I've spent years fighting for fall apart in a couple of months?"

"It's harder to make something than destroy it."

"Yes, but why Galehaut? And why now?"

"His name doesn't mean 'the high prince' for nothing. He was born to a lord of some sort, but by tradition had to conquer his own lands. And he did, several isles and not a small chunk at the edge of Albion. He resents your power."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Unlike you, Merlin, I'm not stupid. I don't need that spelled out for me!"

Merlin's lips tighten, but he forces himself to go on. "Then you should also remember you personally led the campaign against him, and to a man that inherits nothing but fights for all he has, that is the greatest offense of all. Didn't you even throw him out of the kingdom for a while?"

"Yes," Arthur replies tersely, "I did."

"Then there you have it. He's angry and vindictive, you've stripped him of his power, and through the rebellion he's found the perfect way to take back what he sees as his rightful place."

"But he doesn't have to invade the rest of Albion to do it!"

"You didn't have to send him into exile."

Arthur shoves back from the table and agitatedly paces to and fro. "I've done what I can to be a good king, a good man, and yet everything is still crumbling around me."

"This isn't just about the war, then," Merlin says very quietly.

The king tightens his jaw.

"This is about Gwen."

"This has nothing to do with Gwen!" Arthur's response is a little too quick, too barbed.

"It has everything to do with Gwen. Gwen and your child. I know you want to protect them as much as you want to protect your people. But if you let yourself fall apart, what makes you think the kingdom has any hope?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I didn't ask you to critique my personal life, Merlin. A little support might be nice right now."

"What, you want me to coddle you? 'Oh, poor Arthur, his life is so difficult, why don't we wrap him up in a blanket and feed him soup?'" The name and the taunt slip out before Merlin can help himself.

Arthur stops mid-stride and stares at his manservant in disbelief. "Do you know who you're talking to?"

"I know exactly who I'm talking to. A man that I know is strong enough to pull through this who's acting like a prat because he's scared."

Merlin finishes his sentence in time to see the cup hurling towards his face, but not in time to avoid it. Ribbons of pain shoot through his right eyebrow. He staggers back, his vision spinning, one hand raised defensively.

"Don't call me a coward!"

"Just because you don't want to hear it doesn't mean you don't need to." Merlin ducks out the door, wiping blood from his eyes, before any more flying objects can assail him.

The king glares after him with enough venom to down a dragon. He kicks the goblet on the floor in disgust. Maybe it's the rebellion. Maybe it's the drought. Maybe it's the baby. Maybe it's Gwen. Or maybe it's Merlin, who doesn't even know he's part of the reason Arthur's life is so complicated right now.

This time, when a cup crashes into the wall by the door, Arthur's frustration is directed at himself.

\--

The day dawns hot and stifling when Camelot's soldiers must set out towards Galehaut's captured villages and the forces he's likely stationed there. Merlin is busy loading the packhorses and readying the mounts for travel while Arthur goes to his chambers to say goodbye to Gwen.

The queen's swollen belly seems too large for her small frame. The past few nights she has woken several times with the damp sheets wrinkled and spilling off her side of the bed, and now she feels tired, endlessly tired, as Arthur gives her a hug and a quick, distracted kiss.

"I'll be home as soon as I can, Gwenhwyfar." The unspoken addendum is that he will not return in time for the birth.

Gwen feels the baby kick inside her as though eager to leave--or to protest Arthur's leaving. "Why do we always buy peace with death?" she whispers, stretching out a finger to touch Arthur's cheek.

He grabs her hand and lowers it before she can reach him. "Because it isn't truly peace, just respite," he says, and it isn't until he turns from her and walks halfway down the hallway that he remembers the words are Merlin's.

\--

Merlin finishes strapping Arthur's armor, hands him his sword, and takes a step back, appraising him. "You look like a king. That won't do at all."

"What?"

"The enemy shouldn't be able to tell who you are just by looking, or they'll--"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupts pointedly. "I've told you before, they already know who I am, and if they don't recognize me by sight then they'll know when I start giving orders. The point of a battle isn't to stay safe, it's to keep everyone at home safe."

Merlin bites his lip. "I know," he says finally. "I just..." _Can't help but worry_ , he finishes in his head, ducking down to grab his own chain mail. He shrugs it on awkwardly; he has quite never grown accustomed to the cold weight on his shoulders. As always, he struggles with his vambraces, and Arthur has to step in to help him buckle them.

"Thanks," he mumbles. The king treats him like an equal now, but he still feels odd during these moments of role reversal.

"Can't have you losing a hand." Arthur finishes with the second vambrace and looks up. A faint frown crosses over his face, and he reaches out a finger to trace just above Merlin's right eyebrow. "It's still there."

Merlin tenses at his touch. "It's nothing."

Arthur drops his hand. He will never let anyone--himself included--scar Merlin again. Turning around to face the entrance to the tent, he exhales slowly, rolling his neck and shoulders, steeling and relaxing himself at the same time. He tugs on his gloves and pushes out into the sunlight.

"Knights and soldiers of Camelot!" he shouts, and the men, whispering amongst themselves, snap to attention. "Today we fight for our kingdom. We fight for the safety of the villagers here and our families at home. We fight for the voices of our people and their rights to freedom and justice. Unlike our enemy, we do not fight for power, to conquer or to tear apart the fabric of this kingdom. We fight for unity. We fight for Albion!"

The men roar their support, raising their swords to the sky, and Merlin slips out of the tent and joins them, though he cannot help the nervous thread that coils in his stomach and sets his heart pounding. He feels it every time they prepare for battle--and every time he sees Arthur ready to face danger, risk his life. He was a good prince and now he is a great king. He is a skilled warrior, an excellent commander, more than capable of defending his people, his honor, and his word.

But in doing so he forgets to look after himself. Merlin will never stop worrying about him.

\--

Gwen stares out her chamber window at the city and the forest beyond, wondering yet again why it is the woman's lot to be left behind when men go to war. She will have to see to the castle and to Camelot in Arthur's absence, a responsibility he was reluctant to pass to her but one she is fully capable of taking. Yet part of her knows that though the people may love a queen, they admire a king. Perhaps now is the time to prove she is worthy of their loyalty and respect as much as is any man.

She stands, one hand on her abdomen, wondering if this child, should it be her only, will be born an heir or only inherit the throne once married. If she were to be widowed, would she have to remarry to keep the faith, trust, and loyalty of her people? She hates to think of such matters, would never wish for Arthur to die, but she is all too keenly aware each time he goes to combat that death does not discriminate between peasant and nobleman, servant and sovereign. It is a foe blind to the lots of men, and so it is the only lot all men share.

It is then that she is first struck by the disconcerting thought that perhaps she fears equally for the lives of two men on that distant battlefield, one the king who holds her hand and her crown, one the knight who may yet hold her heart.

\--

The battle is a whirlwind. Arthur does not know where Galehaut found so many soldiers. Some are peasants, swinging their beaten weapons blindly; these men he disarms and thrusts out of harm's way, watching them scramble from the battlefield with their eyes wide. They do not know the cost of war. But many are trained fighters, or if not trained very determined: Arthur blocks a hammer blow with his sword and flings the weapon from his attacker's hands only to have the bull of a man rush into him unarmed, trying to tackle him to the ground. He manages to push him away and knock him down, and much as he hates it he has no choice but to slit his throat.

_A siege would be easier,_ he reflects bitterly, slicing another man on the shoulder and swinging around to knock over a third, _if only I knew where Galehaut were._ The rebel controls at least three castles--none as grand as Camelot, of course, but sturdy fortresses in the hills nonetheless--yet no-one knows where he is. His location is as much a secret as his ambitions. A leader who is a warrior should fight with his men whenever possible if he believes so strongly in his own cause, and Arthur cannot imagine what keeps Galehaut from the field other than a sense of superiority, perhaps, or a cowardly fear for his own life.

A sword flashes above his head, and he raises his shield just in time to block the blow. His opponent launches a furious flurry of attacks, and the two perform a bizarre, deadly dance of lunges and parries. Finally Arthur throws the man off balance and thrusts his sword into his stomach. It comes out dripping crimson. The man crumples, and for a moment that seems much longer than it is Arthur stands still, staring at him, wondering at the strange games death plays. This man was just another man with a home and a family, maybe even a cause. His eyes, shaded behind his visor, catch the light for a final, desperate glance, and then his face hits the ground and Arthur's trance is broken. He is breathing hard, and sweat soaks his clothes and drips from his forehead into his eyes. He shakes his head to clear them and turns just in time to have another soldier bowl into him. They tumble to the ground, sprawling, but he comes up first with his weapon raised to strike.

"Wait! Arthur! It's me!"

The king stops at the familiar voice but does not lower his sword. "Merlin?"

"I was just looking for you," Merlin gasps, struggling to stand. "It's Galehaut, he's--"

Arthur suddenly shoves him over and bashes his shield into the face of the man behind him, another poor soldier without a helmet, his crude mace poised just seconds before to crush Merlin's head. "What about him?"

For a second time Merlin pushes himself up from the ground; a streak of blood runs down his cheek. "He's not here."

"Nobody's seen him, but we still have to--"

"No, you don't understand! He's not here at all. _Anywhere_ here. He's leading a force to Camelot!"

Arthur's breath stops. The words strike him like an axe blow, cleaving his expectations in two. "How many men?" he chokes out. "How do you know?"

"At least half as many as he has here, maybe a little more. There's no time to explain, but there's no way you left enough men-at-arms back home, and someone needs to warn them--"

The king is not given to profanity, but now even Merlin cannot question his maledictive creativity. "Why didn't we think of this?!" he sputters at last.

"I don't know, but if you don't do something--"

"Look out!" shouts Arthur, and Merlin turns just in time to dodge a would-be devastating strike. But in this moment of distraction Arthur is not so lucky, and the blow that crashes into the back of his head sends a bolt of pain through his skull, his neck, his eyes, before the bloodstained grass starts to swim in his vision and at last swallows him into blackness.

\--

"My lady!" a voice calls urgently, accompanied by pounding on the door. Gwen has been unable to sleep, and she throws back the covers immediately, pulls on a shift to cover her nightgown, and hurries to open the latch. She finds herself staring into the wide eyes of a young squire. "My lady," he repeats breathlessly, "there are knights returned from the battle! Not all of them, but a few, anyway--"

"Is Arthur with them?"

"No, but they have urgent news. You must come at once!"

Gwen blinks and shakes her head. "Send for my maid," she instructs, "and quickly. I will be down shortly to meet them."

A few minutes later the queen has changed into a dress at least slightly more respectable than her nightclothes, and not bothering to tie up her hair, she smoothes her skirts over her abdomen and hurries to the throne room.

The company of knights waiting for her looks more like a band of rogues than a unit of Camelot's finest. At their head is Lancelot, and he quickly kneels before her. She notes with concern that he favors his right leg--the dark stain over the cloth binding his shin must be dried blood--and as he stands back up his eyes burn feverishly from sunken, bruise-colored sockets. "My lady, Galehaut is leading a force to Camelot. We know not when or how soon he will be here, for we did not encounter him and the scouts we sent to look for him have yet to bring word to us. We left the battle three days ago and rode as hard as we could to get here. We brought soldiers with us--they should be riding in soon--the fastest of us came ahead to warn you that we need to prepare for a confrontation, be it a siege or an outright attack."

Silence meets this tirade as Gwen absorbs all she has heard, turning over the facts in her mind. "How many troops did he send?"

"By our estimations, at least a third as many as we sent to meet him."

"I will alert the soldiers and guards already here. You may take your rest now; I will have the palace kitchens prepare you something. When the remainder of your company arrives I will see to it that they, too, are fed, rested, and prepared for battle by tomorrow afternoon. If they are as exhausted as you look, they will need it."

"My lady, if there is a siege--"

Gwen is a step ahead of him. "I will alert the people, that we may fill the stores to last until Arthur's forces can return." Even as she says this, she knows the poor crop so far this year--a result of the drought--cannot provide enough food and kindling to sustain them if Arthur arrives even a fortnight late. But she must try, and she must keep a pretense of confidence, lest her doubts dishearten her subjects. "Our garrison is stationed and ready, and I will send guards out to watch for Galehaut's forces."

Another knight--Lionel, Gwen recalls--hesitantly takes a step forward. "With all due respect, my lady, the troops we've brought are so tired they could hardly fight tomorrow, and there are not enough of them to stop an attack if it comes. The soldiers in our garrison scarcely have sufficient armor and weaponry--"

"I will see to it that they are armed more appropriately."

"My lady, we sustained much damage in battle and were in too much of a hurry to bring extra supplies back here. Our men need refitting, and in all Camelot there's not enough armor to protect or swords to arm all these troops."

"Then I will forge them myself!" Gwen snaps. The surprise in Lionel's eyes is directed at her outburst, but it takes her a second to identify the source of his confusion. He must have forgotten that being a queen does not change the fact that she is a blacksmith's daughter. At her pointed look he inclines his head and steps back. She takes a deep breath and says more calmly, "Is there anything else?"

The knights look at each other and slowly shake their heads.

"Then you may take your meal and sleep." She nods in dismissal and they bow almost in unison. She watches them file out the door, all but one.

"What is it, Lancelot?" she asks, pacing towards the window to look out into the night. She is beginning to feel weary again, and as the baby shifts inside her it finally strikes her that the birth may come any day now. It will be a relief; she is not usually irritable, but the constant bloatedness and aching pain in her back and feet are difficult to ignore.

"I...I only wished to thank you, my lady."

"For what?"

"For being strong when so many men are weak."

Gwen stirs and furrows her brow at him. "Thank you, Lancelot," she murmurs. "You should see the court physician, before you collapse."

Lancelot gives her a wan smile, but as he limps towards the door, his leg buckles and suddenly he is on the floor. Gwen rushes to his side, with much difficulty leaning over to shake him, and when he does not move she calls hoarsely for help.

The guards rush into the room and hoist him up, one taking him by the shoulders and another bearing his legs. Gwen bites her lip and watches them march down the hallway. It takes a measure of self-control not to rush after them, for she has orders to give before she can see that he is tended to.

\--

"Arthur?"

The king's awareness separates gradually from the darkness, but as his consciousness seeps back so does the splitting pain in his head, and he groans softly.

"Arthur!"

He cannot bring himself to speak just yet, but after a few breaths he opens his eyes and immediately regrets it. The brightness is nearly blinding, and he shuts them again to block it out.

Through his lids he can see a shadow move to cover the light. He risks cracking his eyes open again and slowly focuses on Merlin's face in front of him. The man looks far more relieved than is decent, his blue eyes wide and disarmingly honest.

"Well, _this_ has never happened before," Arthur mutters sarcastically, licking his chapped lips and shifting to get a look around.

"Don't move," Merlin says quietly, and it's then that he realizes Merlin is cradling his head, trying to give him some water. He accepts it eagerly. "It looks like I might end up wrapping you in a blanket and feeding you soup after all," his manservant continues as he sets down the empty goblet somewhere nearby.

"If you do, I'll throw you into Galehaut's moat." His wits are rushing back now and the throbbing pain in his head is, surprisingly, already receding a little. "Wait, Galehaut's..." He jerks, remembering just in time not to sit up. "Galehaut's forces! Where are they? How soon will he reach Camelot? I need to send someone--Lancelot, maybe--"

"Calm down. It'll be fine."

"It _will_ be fine? Not if we don't deal with it now!" He starts to lift his head and stops when the pain darts back into his neck and skull.

"You need to rest for a minute."

"Camelot can't wait a minute!" Arthur tries to rise again, and this time Merlin gently but firmly pushes him back down.

"As far as we're concerned it's fine, or as fine as we can make it. A company of our knights and soldiers are on their way. They have a few scouts looking for him and so do we. An army the size of his cannot hide forever. Now will you sit still?"

The king sits still for a second, then slowly sinks back, making sense of this development. "How? The company...which knights?"

"Lancelot, Sagramore, Bors, Ector de Maris, and Lionel."

"Who sent them?"

Merlin gives an embarrassed cough.

Arthur blinks. " _You_ sent them?"

"Um...I told Lancelot what happened and he found some knights and soldiers to go back with him."

"So you let Lancelot choose what to do."

He nods.

"Then how did you know exactly which knights left?"

"Ah, close observation?"

"Merlin..."

"Fine, maybe I gathered a few of the fastest together and told them how urgent it was that they leave, and maybe I guessed about how many soldiers they would need to take from here, but I wasn't ordering anyone, just making suggestions."

Arthur sighs. "You're not a knight and you can't even pass for a soldier."

"I'm sorry, sire, I know I shouldn't meddle in warfare--"

"Merlin."

"--especially without asking you first--"

"Merlin, I was in no condition to order anyone."

"--but you were--I know, but maybe I should have--"

"I'm glad you took the initiative," Arthur interrupts.

"--gone to another knight--" Merlin cuts off as he grasps the meaning behind Arthur's words.

The king smiles at his stunned silence. "Good. Now shut up. And close your mouth before you start drooling."

Merlin obeys.

Arthur closes his eyes and leans back into his manservant's arm. His headache is returning, and now that his frenzied moment of worry is over, he finds himself once again completely enervated. He realizes that he never asked the outcome of the battle and thinks that perhaps he cannot afford to rest--but he trusts Merlin to take care of him and any problems that may arise.

As he drifts back into the realm of the subconscious he summons up the energy to whisper, "Stay here, Merlin. I don't want you to leave me."

He is asleep too soon to see Merlin's expression, an odd combination of relief, puzzlement, and tender concern that says much more than any verbal response he could have given.

\--

Gwen peers around the corner of the door. "Is he well?"

The court physician hesitates. "His wound festered, my lady. He is in a great deal of pain and may have a fever." Without waiting for an invitation, she brushes past him to find Lancelot lying on a bed in the center of the room, his head propped up by several small pillows. The sheets are damp and half-fallen on the floor. At first Gwen thinks he is asleep, but as she steps into the room he opens his eyes and shifts to see her better.

"Gwenhwyfar." His voice is barely audible, and she hurries to his side, not even noticing that he has not used her title.

"Lancelot." She smiles tremulously, casting out for any subject but his illness. "The soldiers are almost finished preparing for Galehaut's arrival. We're still short on good swords and food supplies, but with two more days we can remedy the problem." She does not say that the drought has destroyed even more of the crop this year than she hoped.

He has closed his eyes and does not respond, but she takes the slight fluttering of his eyelids as an indication that he is still listening. "They are here, Lancelot, because of you." She reaches out and rests a hand momentarily on his burning forehead. "You are a brave man," she says, loudly, as much to reassure herself as him.

He manages a tiny curve of his lips.

"You went to battle and you rode this company back home, even tired and wounded as you were. You have proven time and time again your loyalty and chivalry to Albion and to Arthur. I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for this kingdom"--she swallows back the lump in her throat--"and for me."

At this last admission Lancelot opens his eyes again, and an expression something like gratefulness flickers through them. For a few seconds more they sit in silence, the healthy soul in a fevered body and the fevered soul in a healthy one. The physician quietly slips a chair behind Gwen, and she sits gratefully.

"The child may come any day now. I hope you are soon well, that you might see the babe. By then, perhaps, you will be able to walk, unless..." Gwen trails off, realizing the gravity of the phrase she almost carelessly finished.

But Lancelot knows her too well, and he gives her a tiny nod that she knows is not intended to assure her he will heal.

"They may have to remove it?" she breathes, clasping the knight's hand in both of hers.

"There are greater things to lose than a limb," Lancelot murmurs with an effort, his fingers tightening around her own, and in his sunken, pale face his eyes burn into hers with such depth that she has to look away.

_I should not have let you go_ , she wants to say, _should have been honest with you, and with myself_.

Footsteps sound on the floor behind her, interrupting her thoughts. "With all due respect, my lady, Sir Lancelot should rest now. I will see to it that he is well cared for."

Mentally thanking the physician for his timing, Gwen gently slips her hands from the knight's and stands, rearranging the sheets and smoothing them over him as though he were a child. She pauses only by some instinct she cannot suppress to lean over and kiss his brow, then hurries from the room before he can see her tears.

\--

"We have no choice." Scarcely three days after the battle, Arthur turns to face the remaining Knights of the Round Table. He has called them to his tent for a discussion of strategy. "We cannot return to Camelot, since this Lord...Lord..."

"Rience," Merlin absentmindedly supplies from his position at the back of the tent, polishing the king's armor.

"Lord Rience and his army escaped. If he stays here and we return to Camelot, he will strengthen his foothold here. If he, too, rides for Camelot, then he will not flee so far that we cannot soon find and intercept him. I dislike having to resort to such uncertain tactics, but I can think of little else to do."

"We would have captured them," interjects Lamorak, his ruddy complexion betraying his hot-headedness, "but by the time he began his retreat our fastest knights and many of our soldiers were gone--no thanks to the orders of your _servant_."

Arthur's eyes are suddenly aflame, and the contrast with his otherwise steely expression forces even Lamorak to lower his gaze. "He took the only course of action that could be taken," he says in low, scathing tones, "and you ought to be grateful he did, or it would be your wife's blood shed in Camelot instead of Galehaut's."

"You might ask yourself how he knew Galehaut was marching to Camelot at all," Lamorak ripostes.

Arthur shoots a glance at Merlin, whose eyes are fixed on the helmet before him though his hands have ceased to work on it. "I trust him. You would do well to do the same." Without waiting for a response--and fully intending to ignore any there may be--he turns back to the rest of the company, raising his voice. "We may have captured this castle's garrison and convinced the castellan to surrender his fortress to us, but Galehaut and his lords hold at least two other castles in this area. I suspect Rience has already fled to one of these. The question is, which one."

"Permission to provide a suggestion, sire." The speaker, an older knight by the name of Caradoc, is well-traveled and -seasoned; Arthur would welcome his counsel. He says as much and Caradoc continues, "The nearest castle held by Galehaut's forces is located on a quagmire--one practically impossible to navigate except by those who know the route. Rience's plan would likely be to return to this castle in the hope that the terrain would throw off pursuers. But I daresay the drought has probably dried up most of the marsh, and a castle that usually relies on natural protection is unlikely to take heavy manmade precautions. Even if Rience is aware of this, we can lose little by capturing this fortress, perhaps even gain a stronghold. The ride is only a day and a half away. I am sure we could be ready to attack by the day after we arrive."

The other knights are nodding in agreement. Arthur avoids the superfluous question of whether there are any objections and says instead, "Then it is settled. We will leave tomorrow if we can, the day after if we must." His injury prevented his watching the outcome of this particular engagement, but he has seen often enough the bloody price of warfare. The only time many friends and foes will find peace with each other is when their bodies are strewn across the battlefield. He dismisses this dark thought along with his knights, but when he looks up Lamorak is still standing before him. Lamorak's eyes meet his, flicker to Merlin with something like distaste, and then he stalks out, leaving the two men alone in the tent.

The king steps over to the table where his manservant has moved on to polishing a rerebrace. "How _did_ you know about Galehaut's forces?"

"I overheard."

"During a battle?"

"Two soldiers on the edge of the field. When I noticed them leave I followed them out to the woods nearby. They said something about a plan--and making time for Galehaut to reach a town I know is only a day's ride from Camelot. One of them asked how many men he was taking, and that's how I knew the size of his force--but I didn't hear the other's response, because one of them caught sight of me and the safest place for me to run back to was, ironically, the fray."

Arthur furrows his brow. "Why did you follow two random soldiers off the battlefield?"

The whole time he has been speaking Merlin has not met Arthur's eyes, and now he does not even look up. "Because one of them was a knight."

Momentary shock is quickly overridden by practicality. "That is a very serious accusation. Which knight?"

"I don't know."

Arthur makes a derisive noise that is part annoyance, part exasperated disbelief. "You don't know. Truly, Merlin, you are a wonder, to have spent so much time in my court and now come to me with an allegation of treason, only to not even _recognize_ the knight you're accusing. Of all the idiotic--"

"He was in full armor," Merlin interrupts defensively. "He hadn't even taken off his helmet!"

"So you're sure you saw this."

"I swear it!"

It is Merlin's confirmation of what he witnessed, the possibility of such treason, that causes Arthur to lean back in dismay--but it is a smaller, more personal feeling of betrayal that prompts his next words. "Why did you not tell me earlier? You had two whole days while I was recovering."

Merlin blinks at him incredulously. "You spent most of it unconscious and I spent the rest of it running errands for you!"

"And when you weren't? You couldn't find one minute to let me know?"

"How was I supposed to when every time I tried to speak to you, you cut me off and directed me to do this or that or to oversee activity in the camp or tell Sir Caradoc to go on patrol--"

"I wasn't well enough to do it myself!"

"Yes, so you had me act as your manservant _and_ your messenger! There were plenty of knights that could have done the job!" Arthur rolls his eyes, and Merlin rushes on, "Look, I would have told you today after the meeting--"

"And let him continue to betray me in the meantime? And _after_ the meeting, when he would know exactly what we're planning to do? Really, Merlin, are you even aware you _have_ a head on your shoulders?"

"I've been watching the knights and none of them have done anything! I promise I would have told you as soon as I had a chance--"

"I thought we were through your not being honest with me."

"I am being honest! I was so busy I couldn't--"

"You couldn't even do that much for me?! Really, I--"

"Everything I do is for you!" Merlin explodes, with such vehemence that the king stops and just stares at him, mouth agape. "When will you understand that?!"

Arthur is too shocked to find any response to these statements, much less to the look in Merlin's eyes--hurt, indignant, even pained, with an undercurrent of something else Arthur cannot quite find words for. The silence stretches long and heavy. Merlin swallows, his face red more from embarrassment now than temper, and furiously resumes scrubbing the rerebrace before him.

"At least I know now," Arthur says at last, and it is not anger that threatens the evenness in his voice and expression. He feels a small crack inside him, in his chest, maybe, and it is all he can do to turn his back and walk out of the tent with some pretense of dignity. He has not run for two days--but now he does, through the battlefield, around the moat of the captured castle, again and again. He runs until he can convince himself that the reason he cannot breathe is exhaustion, until he can stop thinking that though he knows many ways to kill a man, he knows not one way to admit that he loves one.

\--

The room is hot and dim. A few candles flicker blurrily in the corners of Gwen's vision. Like her husband, she has gone to war against a rebel, only his challenges the boundaries of a kingdom and hers, the confines of a womb. She cannot speak for Galehaut, but it seems that her child, at least, is winning--and unlike Arthur, she is happy to lose.

Another rush of pain sweeps through Gwen's body. She clings to it, digging her nails into her palms, wondering how much blood she will have to shed in this battlefield of a birthing chamber before the baby is safely swaddled and in her arms. She cannot understand why men consider women weak when no man would exist without a woman's agony.

The voices of her servants and midwives drift in and out of her hearing; one of them feeds her a spoonful of honey, another dabbles her fingers in lavendar water, and the rest hover about like nervous dragonflies, assuring her that the child is positioned properly and though the passage may take hours, all will be well. But the hours mean little; time is irrelevant here. What does matter is only that there will be an end, whether in a few minutes or an eternity.

At the moment an eternity seems more likely.

\--

"Don't you think it's suspicious how Lamorak keeps darting away into the woods?" Merlin murmurs to Arthur as he rides up next to him, bouncing clumsily in the saddle.

The king glances at him and looks away. "I assigned him to scout for ambushers. That's his _job_."

"But does he really have to be away so long? Last night--"

"He went to the tavern before we set off. Like most soldiers do when they capture a castle or a village. Even Sir _Caradoc_ left to get a drink, and you know he despises the vice."

"Still, if there's any chance he's the traitor, we ought to keep an eye on him."

"Just because he resented your giving orders on my behalf and questioned how you knew about Galehaut's forces does not make him guilty."

"I'm not saying he's guilty, I'm saying we should keep him close in case he isn't innocent!"

"For heaven's sake, Merlin, we only just left this morning and we should be at the castle by tomorrow at noon! Anything he wanted to communicate to Galehaut's forces, if he is the traitor, he would already have told them."

"But that leaves him one night--tonight. What do you have to lose by watching him?"

Arthur tightens his jaw but does not respond.

Merlin stares at him for a second longer, then looks down at his horse's mane, damp with sweat; the day's wicked heat is taking its toll on the animals as well. "Are you still angry that I didn't tell you earlier?" he says hesitantly.

"Tell me what? That one of my knights is a traitor, or that you..." He trails off mid-sentence.

"That I...?"

"Nothing," Arthur growls, and his tone invites no response. His manservant dares to peer up at him but his gaze is fixed ahead, his posture rigid. More than ever Merlin wishes he could have told him some other way, _any_ other way, what he thoughtlessly blurted before Arthur ran away from him and set up his strongest defenses around himself.

Or maybe Merlin is delusional and really that has nothing to do with it. But his heart seems to insist otherwise, throbbing painfully in his chest as he rides silently next to his king--not Arthur, not his friend, certainly not anything deeper, just a sovereign leading his knights to battle for the protection of his people.

\--

When the baby is finally freed, the afterbirth passed, the bleeding abated, Gwen collapses back in complete exhaustion and relief. The servants gently scrub the baby clean, its cries gradually giving way to soft mewls, and when Gwen has caught her breath one of the midwives offers her the squirming creature.

"You have a son, my lady, a healthy son," she exclaims, and Gwen reaches out to accept him.

His face is small and crumpled, his eyes squeezed shut against the shock of the outside world. Though he is only about the length of her forearm and the width of her palm she has difficulty imagining how he ever fit inside her, he with the heart of a knight in his chest and the fate of a kingdom one day to rest in his tiny hands. For now he curls instinctively into her body, and for the first time in the past many hours Gwen smiles, reaching to stroke the few damp hairs on his head.

A sudden strong sense of familial belonging and completeness surges through her. For a second then she almost forgets that the child's father is unable to see her for reasons other than that men are barred from the birthing chamber, thinking of he that is sweet and noble, close to her heart, with her in mind and spirit if not in physical presence. She feels whole--but only for that short second before she realizes the man she is thinking of is not, in fact, the boy's father, that he is not in battle but lying feverish with his right leg gravely wounded. At another time, perhaps, she would shove aside this thought with shame, but now she is too distracted by the new life stirring in her arms to do much more than remind herself that she is queen, wife to the king, and mother, that these duties must come before what are perhaps her true emotions.

"Have you thought of a name for him?" asks another servant, her eyes bright, obviously dreaming of the day when she, too, will cradle her own child against her chest.

Gwen glances at her briefly, but her smile is directed at the baby. "He is Gwydre," she murmurs, touching the soft skin of his cheek with the back of her finger. "My son."

\--

The knights set up camp late that night in a small clearing ringed by gnarled oaks. The soldiers bunch as close as possible to the opening, but by and large they are forced to scatter through the woods. Under his thin blanket beneath a threateningly black sky, Merlin finds himself unable to sleep, every distant rustle transformed into the footstep of an invisible enemy, every silence the stillness of death.

At last he gives up trying and slips out to perch on a nearby root, watching shadows flicker in and out of his sight and keeping a protective eye on Arthur's slumbering form. He leans back against the trunk of the tree, flakes of moss scraping off onto his jacket and bits of bark crumbling beneath his trousers. Even the night is dry.

There is a whisper of cloth sliding from somewhere close and Merlin immediately turns his head to the sound, his senses on edge. A silhouette steals into the darkness surrounding the camp. Merlin stands and creeps after it, wincing as each step crunches twigs beneath his boots.

The figure--he must be a knight--appears to be in no hurry, winding around the trees in a more or less straight line and finally coming to a halt. Merlin peeks over his shoulder; he can barely see the clearing from here. Carefully he takes a few more steps forward, trying his best to identify the man by a thin sliver of light provided by the moon.

The knight turns his head, casting about to make sure no one is watching. Merlin catches sight of his profile and inhales sharply.

"Lamorak!" he mutters, crouching lower and slinking forward. The knight shifts and Merlin darts behind a tree. He hears a shuffle of cloth and a muffled oath, and slowly he peers around the trunk. It is then that he realizes, embarrassingly enough, that Lamorak is struggling to drop his trousers.

Cursing his own stupidity as well as the inconvenient nature of bodily functions, Merlin turns away, thoroughly convinced he ought to re-evaluate his strategy of unconvering the traitor. He edges out from behind the tree and turns to head back to camp.

His boot catches on a root and sends him sprawling to the ground with a crackle of dry foliage and an audible _thump_. He hardly dares to breathe, struggling to disentangle himself from the root, and just as he sits up a hand clasps over his mouth from behind.

"Don't move," hisses a voice in his ear, and the prick of a dagger in his back indicates his assailant means it. The hand slips off his mouth and grips his shoulder painfully. "What are you doing here?"

If only he had a convincing excuse! "Just...couldn't sleep?"

"What have you heard?"

"Nothing. At least, not what you're thinking--"

The tip prods a little harder into his back and he winces in anticipation of pain.

"Nothing," he repeats. "I haven't heard anything."

Before his attacker can speak again, a surprised voice comes drifting from somewhere behind him. "Caradoc?" Lamorak says. "What's going on here?"

For a long moment no-one moves. Then the point in Merlin's back recedes and disappears. "I thought he might be a spy," replies Caradoc smoothly. "Word has it that there is a traitor in our midst."

Lamorak trudges up and looks back and forth between them. "You think it's the _servant_?"

"No. But one can never be too careful." His fingers dig a little deeper into Merlin's shoulder, and then abruptly he lets him go. "Best return to camp, Merlin. You'll need your sleep before the battle tomorrow."

Merlin stumbles forward and moves to return to camp, but a thought crosses his mind and he stops, looking back at Caradoc. "What are you doing out here with a dagger? You weren't assigned sentry duty tonight."

"I thought it best for our safety," the knight replies evasively.

"You don't trust the other sentries?"

"Another pair of eyes doesn't hurt."

Merlin regards him warily, wondering what he can say, when something else occurs to him. "Do you mean to fight half-asleep, then?"

Lamorak looks as though he cannot believe Merlin dares to speak to another knight in such a way, but Caradoc's eyes are narrowed as he replies icily, "I assure you, I am quite well-rested enough to do battle tomorrow."

"But that's just it." Merlin dares to take a step closer. "We're not fighting tomorrow. We're camping close to the castle at midday and starting the assault the day after. You should know. You proposed the strategy. So unless you know something we don't..."

Caradoc's eyes flash in the darkness. "I misspoke."

"The same mistake, twice? Skulking around at night with no reason to be here?" Another realization strikes him, and he presses on, "Didn't you lead the patrol that found no trace of Galehaut's armies? Weren't you at the head of the contingent that Lord Rience broke through during the battle? And that trip to the tavern last night--you weren't drinking, were you?"

The knight's face contorts into a frown and he lunges for Merlin, dagger poised to strike. The move is so unexpected from the usually even-tempered Caradoc that Merlin barely has time to react. He is not sure exactly what happens next, but Caradoc ends up on top of him and a streak like fire bites through his upper arm.

He gasps at the pain and tries to wriggle free before he realizes the man is not moving. Lamorak is poised above him with a large rock in his fist, which he sets down nearby as he leans down to drag Caradoc, groaning, off of Merlin.

"Come on," the conscious knight says gruffly. "We should get him to the king."

"I'll tell him," Merlin responds breathlessly, staggering to his feet and pressing a hand over the jagged wound on his arm. He tries to ignore the sticky warmth of the blood seeping through his fingers as he lurches through the forest to wake Arthur.

\--

Midday shrugs on heat like a mantle. Gwen, tired in body but sharp and focused in mind, looks out over the castle bailey, watching the people mill to and fro. She left Gwydre with the nurse and has been giving orders all morning, only now finding a few minutes to herself before she has to return to siege preparations, directing the collection of food outside the castle, distributing rations, overseeing the production of weaponry and armor for skirmishing troops and bolts for the crossbowmen positioned over the battlements. Her maids were appalled that she insisted on returning to work so soon after the birth, insisting she rest and recover. She would have none of it, gently but firmly dismissing their concerns. So often they forget that a sweet temperament does not preclude an iron resolve.

Her thoughts drift to that morning, when the rest of the soldiers and men-at-arms trailing behind Lancelot and his company finally arrived, some of them wounded, all of them exhausted. Unlike the first knights to burst into the throne room a few nights ago, not all of these men had horses, and those that did were unable to obtain fresh mounts along the way. Exhausted as their riders, the stallions hung their heads and trudged weary and lathered along the stones, blocking the streets up to the portcullis in a ragged line. The townspeople hailed their coming with a mixture of relief at the presence of supporting troops and resigned dread knowing that this confirmed the threat to Camelot was a real one. Gwen made sure the soldiers were fed and instructed the physician to set up a makeshift hospital to tend to the injured.

Remembering the wounded reminds her that Lancelot is to have his leg removed today. Her concerns for him are pressing, but if the limb must be amputated to save his life there is little she can or will do--only pray the procedure is as efficient as possible (to wish for it to be painless would only be foolish) and that his recovery is without complication. She turns from the bailey intending to seek out news of the state of the troops when an ungainly adolescent boy crashes into her. Immediately he backs up, stammering awkward apologies, his red hair sticking in clumps on his head and his freckles increasingly blending with the embarrassed flush of his face.

"I am quite well," she assures him for the fourth time as he inquires yet again, scrabbling to pick up the tattered scarlet cloaks spilled at his feet. "You are Sir Caradoc's squire?"

The boy nods, still too mortified to meet her gaze.

"Your name is...Griflet?"

His eyes widen and he risks a glance up at her. "Y-you know me?"

Gwen smiles. "I try to learn the names of those involved with the Pendragon household--all of them, from the scullery maids to the men-at-arms and, yes, their squires, too."

Griflet stands up a little straighter, rearranging the bundles in his arms, and grins a little. "Well, that's m-me. Squire to a knight."

"Sir Caradoc went with Arthur's company. Why did he not take you with him?"

"He did. But when M-Merlin sent some soldiers back he told me to go with them."

" _Merlin_ sent them?" Gwen stops as the implication dawns on her. "Did something happen to Arthur?"

The boy shuffles the cloaks in his arms again. "He was k-knocked unconscious, but he should be f-fine."

Assured that he is well, Gwen relaxes a little. "He was ever one to have a hard head," she says somewhat distractedly. A small part of her is intrigued that Merlin, not one of the knights, sent the company back to Camelot. Presumably he only did so because Arthur was unable to, but that he acted on the king's behalf when it was not an advisor's--or a manservant's--responsibility...she knows how loyal he is, how good, but knows, too, that he never would have taken such a step outside of his prescribed duty without Arthur's permission had he not a measure of Arthur's trust that even she did not realize he had. But she does not have time to ponder that now.

Griflet stares at his feet, looking as though he has forgotten something, then suddenly raises his head. "I s-saw the physician today, and he said to tell you that Lancelot won't have to have his l-leg removed after all. His fever unexpectedly broke during the night and the festering seems to have s-stopped. It was a miracle, really--he m-may even be able to walk in a couple of days."

Gwen feels a rush of relief so intense it surprises her, her heart lifting in her chest. "That is wonderful news," she exclaims, and it seems to Griflet that he has never seen his queen look quite so radiant before when given similar news. He allows himself a quick, lopsided grin, then clumsily bows and scurries off with his armload of torn cloth. Gwen watches him go with a smile on her face. For all his inveterate stuttering and nervous habits, Griflet is a good lad. One day, perhaps, a seat at the Round Table will be reserved for him.

\--

Merlin shakes Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur! Wake up!"

The king rolls over and opens his eyes. Usually a little jostling and a few quiet words would not be enough to wake him in the middle of the night, but he never rests as well out on campaign as at home. Last night he was too tired from riding all day and thinking too much to set up the tent, just lay down with his blanket on the ground like the rest of his men. "What is it?" he mumbles.

"Caradoc," comes the reply. "He's the traitor."

Arthur lets this sink in, then sits bolt upright. "Where is he?"

"With Lamorak, in the woods." Merlin waves his right hand in their general direction, and by a dim wash of moonlight Arthur sees a dark stain on his palm. Understanding clicks in his brain when his manservant returns his hand to cover a spot on his left arm.

"You're bleeding," he says.

"Yes. No! Well, yes, but--it's not important. Listen, Lamorak knocked Caradoc on the head, probably hard enough that he's unconscious, but we need to bring him back before he comes around and tries to escape."

Arthur pushes off his thin blanket, scans the camp until he catches sight of the guards watching for trouble, and strides over to them. One hand still pressed over his cut, Merlin shakily straightens his legs until he is standing. He marvels that even in a crisis Arthur does not shout and wake all his men.

Soon two or three soldiers and a knight slip off into the darkness. As Arthur moves to rejoin his manservant, Merlin offers to lead them to the spot.

"You can hardly hold yourself on two feet on a good day," Arthur replies. "I hate to think how unsteady you are when you're wounded." But his jesting masks genuine concern, and with a gentle hand on Merlin's arm he directs him to sit on a nearby log and sets about rekindling the fire.

It does not take long for the smoking ashes to catch flame. Arthur moves next to Merlin. "Let me see what happened."

Merlin removes his hand, letting the king examine his arm, even in his current state having to remind himself not to shiver at Arthur's touch. "Why aren't you going with the soldiers?"

"Someone has to see to you." Arthur frowns at the pallor of his manservant's face. He is usually pale, but now he looks positively ghostly. "Take off your tunic." As Merlin obeys, Arthur rummages in a nearby pack and comes up with a clean tunic of his own. The cloth tears fairly easily, though not without some effort, and Arthur takes the strip over to Merlin only to discover it is too thin to cover the cut. He gives it to him to wipe his bloody hand, then tears another length--thicker this time to extend past the edges of the wound--and wraps it tightly so the pressure will stanch the bleeding. "At least Caradoc's knife was sharp," Arthur notes, half to himself. "Lacerations are more likely to become infected than clean cuts." He finishes tying the dressing and his fingers linger on Merlin's skin before he pulls away. "You should put on a new tunic, one that's clean without a hole in the arm."

"That was my last," Merlin says in a small voice. Arthur looks at him incredulously, rolls his eyes, and throws over one of his own. Merlin struggles with the garment, his slim form disappearing in its wide folds, and fastens his thin belt around his waist. The cloth hangs comically large on his shoulders and arms, but at least he will not have to traipse half-naked through the forest.

"You should wash your own clothes, Merlin."

"I would, but we are in a drought, after all, and then I wouldn't have time to wash yours."

Arthur smiles a little, absently prodding the firewood with a stick.

"I should not have suspected Lamorak," Merlin says after a second, his voice low. "Or at the least I should have been more sure before I told you."

For once, the king does not respond with a barbed comment about his manservant's idiocy. "You were looking out for us. Maybe had I done the same we would have discovered Caradoc earlier." He turns to face his companion, intending to ask what exactly happened out in the woods and how he can be sure Caradoc is guilty, but as he looks at him the words fade on his tongue, and it seems suddenly much less important that a trusted knight has abandoned Camelot's cause for the enemy's and much more important that Merlin is at his side and safe. Here.

"All men make mistakes." The statement is simple and Merlin stares into the flames as he says it, but in the silence following he knows Arthur understands exactly what he means. What he does not expect is Arthur's gentle fingertip on his cheek, tracing his cheekbones down to his jawline and turning his head to face him.

"Then I hope this isn't one of mine," murmurs Arthur, and in a heartbeat he has closed the distance between them.

At first Merlin is too shocked to respond to the brush of Arthur's lips on his own and he sits very still, his heart stammering in his chest. But if this kiss is a carefully posed question, the next is an answer emphatically in the affirmative. It is an odd union of discovery and inevitability, warm and passionate and undeniable as truth.

If Merlin's life were a minstrel's song, the rest of the world would melt away until in all his awareness there is only this. But as Arthur moves his hand down Merlin's shoulders he accidentally presses his thumb into Merlin's bandaged wound, and Merlin breaks away with a gasp of pain only to lose his precarious balance on the log. His clumsy grip on Arthur's tunic pulls them both down and they tumble into the dirt, the king barely avoiding crashing his head into a burning brand.

"Are you trying to kill me?!" Arthur sputters once he has his breath back.

"No, I'm protecting you." Merlin's voice is muffled. "If you weren't on top of me, this rock would be impaling _your_ back instead of mine."

Arthur props himself up, looking down at Merlin's somewhat disheveled hair, his eyes glittering in the firelight. "Is that what you are, my protector? Revealing plots against my life, uncovering traitorous knights, tackling me to the ground to avoid flying sharp objects, taking rocks in the back...?" He raises an eyebrow.

"It must be my destiny," Merlin says with a straight face. Then the left corner of his mouth twitches and he grins.

Arthur grins back and leans down to kiss him again.

When Lamorak and the knights return moments later with Caradoc in tow, they do not ask why their king and his advisor are sitting on the ground, smudged with dirt, deliberately avoiding each other's eyes and stifling smiles on their firelight-shadowed faces.

\--

The sentry bursts through the door into the throne room, bowing quickly to the queen and ignoring her astonished company. "My lady, we have spotted Galehaut's army near to the city. They will be at the castle in a matter of hours."

Gwen recovers from the initial shock before any of the men in the room. "See that the soldiers are made ready," she orders the knights. "We will be prepared for Galehaut's arrival. Each of you knows what to do and I trust you to do it and do it well." They dip their heads almost in unison and rush to carry out their tasks. Gwen sweeps out after them, trying to remember how Arthur offers encouragement to his men before they go to battle. She nods to each soldier who meets her eyes as she hurries down flights of stairs and winding corridors to the physician's quarters.

"We need to set up a field hospital," she says as the startled physician opens the door. "Galehaut's army will be here in a matter of hours. Gather any help you may need--the maids, the servants, even the cooks if necessary."

"I will see to it, my lady." The physician bows quickly and scurries off into the hallway. Gwen is about to follow him when a man emerges from the corner of the room, clad in a simple tunic and trousers, favoring his right leg as he approaches.

"My lady Gwenhwyfar," he says, bowing courteously.

She steps toward him, matching his gaze as he looks up. "Lancelot!"

"I regret that I cannot stay, my lady, but with any luck I will see you again."

"Cannot stay?" A faint frown shadows Gwen's face. "With any luck? Lancelot, are you going to battle?"

"Yes."

"Were you not very recently ill?" she exclaims with concern. "And your leg--has it healed?"

"I am a knight, my lady. It is my duty to fight for Camelot as long as I am able."

Gwen opens her mouth to expostulate, but as soon as she sees the look on Lancelot's face she knows protesting his decision is hopeless. He is too noble for his own good, she thinks--or perhaps he is good because he is noble. "Thank you," she says instead. "It would be any king's wish to have a knight so loyal to him as you are."

"My loyalty lies not only with the king," Lancelot says softly, "but with my queen as well. I trust you with my life, my lady Gwenhwyfar. As people admire a king and look to him to guide them in times of war, so you have proven that you, too, are deserving of their admiration, as a queen and a sovereign both." He lowers his voice even further, reaching forward and taking her hand. "You have all my faith and all my love."

As he raises her hand to kiss the back, she entwines his fingers with hers and looks up into his eyes. "You have left me before," she whispers. "Are you to leave me again now?"

"I should never have left then. I can promise nothing now."

For a second longer she searches his face, then they both lean forward and their lips meet in the middle, smoothly, naturally. His arms curve around her in a warm and comforting embrace and he pulls her to his chest. She tries not to think that he may be taken from her soon, closes her eyes and gives in to the gentle assurance of his kisses.

A stolen moment in the physician's room is all they can have now. But Gwen can feel Lancelot's arms around her, the honest intensity of his gaze, long after he has left her standing before an empty doorway. She has stood behind open doors before, every time Arthur rides for battle, every time he finds he has nothing more to say to her. But this time she runs through that door, down the stairs in time to see Lancelot turn and head for the armory. It is then she knows she has made an irreversible decision, that she has chosen to betray her king instead of her heart.

\--

Surrounded by a ring of curious soldiers, Arthur stands before Caradoc, his face impassive. The knight does not even struggle against his two captors, only kneels wordlessly at the king's feet. For the first time in many weeks the morning is hazy with mist, white and wispy and apparently come from nowhere, and to Arthur the fog is as much a miracle as the discovery of the traitor.

"What have you told the enemy?" he demands.

Caradoc does not look up. "That you are coming."

"You must have spoken to Rience's men, then. Are they preparing an ambush for us? Are they even at the castle?"

The knight does not respond. He could be killed for this treachery. He probably knows he will be. Yet something keeps Arthur from flaunting this punishment.

"You were loyal to Camelot before," he says instead, switching tactics. "Why would you turn your back now?"

When Caradoc remains silent, another knight hesitantly steps forward. "Surely you know, my lord, that he is kin to Galehaut?"

If Arthur is surprised, he does not show it. "Is he?"

"The rebel's uncle," the knight continues. "His sister was the bastard's mother."

The king's eyes have not left Caradoc's face. "So you wish to gain the crown for your nephew, is that so?"

Again the accused says nothing.

"Then why did you not kill me? You have had plenty of chances."

A few of the men shuffle uneasily at this suggestion. Merlin, from his position just behind Arthur, sets his jaw. _I would not allow that to happen._

"It is because I do not wish for your death," Caradoc says at last, wearily. "I may have stronger loyalties than to you, but I am no assassin, and neither would the people of Camelot wish to live under a sovereign who murdered for his crown."

"Yet you think they would be content to live beneath one who had stolen it."

"Not stolen. Won."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, recalling something Merlin once told him about Galehaut. "Clearly you share your nephew's belief in fighting for all you have."

"Unlike you, my lord, neither Galehaut nor myself inherited anything but beliefs."

An astonished murmur ripples through the soldiers. Arthur ignores it. "How is it that you are a knight in Camelot if your sister is the mother of a man against whom we campaigned?"

"You campaigned against him, not I. And it was not I who sent him into exile."

Arthur cannot dispute this fact. To banish Galehaut was a mistake, but what is done is done. "Our realms were ever in contention before the union of Albion. Why were you a knight in Camelot?"

"I was sent to be a squire as an indication of trust."

"Realms do not just send the sons of their nobles to their enemies as indications of trust."

"No. But they may send their daughters."

Merlin's eyes widen. "Of course," he mutters under his breath, and Arthur turns to look at him. "A political marriage," he continues, louder. "To bring peace to both domains."

For the first time Caradoc raises his head. "A peace that would never come to pass." After a fraction of a second's hesitation, he seems to reach a decision. "My sister was to be wed to Uther Pendragon."

The soldiers exchange glances. Arthur turns sharply to the knight. "My father was to wed another before he met Igraine?"

"Indeed. He broke that engagement and with it my eldest sister's heart."

"She actually loved him, then? Even though the marriage was arranged?"

"Perhaps she did not love him, but she loved the peace their union would represent." He stares fixedly at no one in particular. "She was a gentle woman, sweet and kind, innocent and far too trusting in men. It broke her to see her dreams of peace destroyed."

"And yet you did not leave Camelot? You remained loyal to Uther?"

"She urged me to stay here as a representation of my house's pledge of allegiance to Uther," Caradoc corrects in the manner of one refuting a grievous misunderstanding. "Even after she married the ruling lord of my realm, she believed I represented peace. I served him for her sake, not for his, not for Camelot's, certainly not for my own. It was my duty of honor, for the sake of her dreams of peace."

"Then for her sake you could not extend that loyalty to the kingdom?"

"Not to you." Caradoc's voice turns choleric. "Uther, at least, won his throne. You did not, and once you had it you invaded my homeland to create your united Albion, banished my nephew, destroyed the peace. My sister is dead now and so, too, is the man she was to marry. If not for Igraine, she would have wed him and her son would be king of Camelot."

Arthur cannot resist an acerbic rejoinder. "Albeit an inherited position."

"Perhaps. But I would have Galehaut earn your throne. If he wins Albion perhaps he can also win the hearts of the people. Perhaps if you surrender"--Arthur snorts contemptuously, but Caradoc ignores him--"there will even be less bloodshed. I do not want war. I do not even want your death. But I do want the justice and the peace my sister dreamed of and my nephew can create."

"Through a bloody rebellion. I daresay Galehaut does not share your vision."

A muscle twitches in Caradoc's face as though he would like to respond but has nothing more to say. He bows his head, in submission or in defiance Arthur is not sure, and says, "Do with me what you will, son of Uther. But I will not betray my kin."

\--

No sane man should be on his feet too soon after an injury to the leg and a dubious recovery from infection. But knights hold themselves to different standards than sane men, and so Lancelot rides forth with his fellow soldiers, dismissing the sharp pain in his shin and knee as he urges his mount to a gallop. To serve his kingdom and its honor is more than his duty, it is his calling. He raises his sword and joins the battle cry as the king's forces rush to meet the rebel's.

Men topple before the hooves of Lancelot's speckled brown destrier. The stallion is well trained--a blessing for his rider, who had little experience with horses until he became a Knight of the Round Table--and does not falter even before the wickedly sharp pikes angled by Galehaut's soldiers. Lancelot plunges his sword down into the fray, knowing if he reaches a target only when his blade comes back dripping with blood.

One of Galehaut's soldiers crashes headlong into Lancelot's horse. A knight of Camelot swings a mace at the man and misses, striking Lancelot's leg instead. He cries out involuntarily at the sudden burst of pain, his foot slipping from the stirrup. He tumbles off his horse, one hand still tangled in the reins, his legs dragging as he fumbles with the leather straps. At last he drops down into the grass.

Swords screech along each other's lengths. Maces shriek against metal or thud against flesh. Somewhere nearby a horse screams. Lancelot prays that it is not his destrier as he struggles to regain his breath, wincing at the stench and craning to see if Galehaut's men have yet breached the walls of Camelot. But he can see little beyond the blur of weapons and armored men, and the unexpected morning fog has yet to lift completely from the field. He pushes himself up, wincing as his vision swims, and staggers unevenly to his feet, clutching his sword as though its solid weight will keep him grounded.

A man looms before him, tall and armor-clad and helmetless, his brown hair and heavy eyebrows matched by inscrutable dark eyes. Even with sweat beading on his forehead, his breath heavy and his body smeared with battlefield grime, he retains a certain regality that marks him as the head of the rebellion. He raises his sword, its length streaked with crimson, and Lancelot braces for the blow to follow.

It does not come. Instead Galehaut simply stands at the ready, a scant few feet from where Lancelot is standing. For a long moment knight and rebel regard each other as two wildcats preparing to pounce; then Lancelot slowly lifts his blade, fighting not to stagger on his injured leg, and steps forward to meet the challenge.

The clamor of the surrounding violence fades to a backdrop as Lancelot focuses all his energy on this strange, unexpected duel. Galehaut is an excellent swordsman, strong and agile both. The two men lunge and parry back and forth, weapons weaving in the air. Soldiers part around them as waves around rock. It seems to Lancelot as though the entire of the battle has narrowed to a single struggle between two well-matched opponents, that the fate of Camelot rests on this tenuous fulcrum.

It is a while before Lancelot realizes that Galehaut does not appear to be abusing his injured leg. How easy it would be for his enemy to force him into putting all his weight on that limb and then dispatch him with a blow--but he fights as he would any opponent with full use of his body. Lancelot does not know whether it is an act of nobility or sadism: an honorable competitor refusing to resort to trickery, or a hunting hawk toying mercilessly with its quarry. War is a time to take any advantage one can get; Lancelot does not understand why Galehaut does not appear to follow this mantra.

No sooner has this thought crossed his mind than Galehaut swings low at his injured right leg. Lancelot brings his sword down to block the blow and the man throws himself onto him, forcing Lancelot to put his own weight on the weak limb. He grits his teeth against the wave of agony, tasting blood on his tongue, feeling his knee buckle beneath him. With a massive effort he throws Galehaut away from him and twists to readjust his stance. Even favoring the leg he does not think he can stand on it much longer, not with this blinding pain and crippling exhaustion. But his head is oddly clear, his purpose sure, his resolve unwavering, and by sheer force of will he stays on his feet.

Galehaut steps forward and with an effort Lancelot raises his sword again. But the man lowers his own weapon and studies the knight with an unreadable expression. "You fight valiantly, even in the absence of your king," he says at last, his voice low and rough.

Lancelot swallows but does not reply, gripping his sword tighter.

"Even wounded as you are you rise as though from the dead to cross swords with me."

"I would die a thousand times over in defense of my kingdom," he replies, his words cracking in his dry throat.

"The kingdom only? Then if I should hold it you should fight for me as well?"

"My kingdom is only mine so long as my king holds it, and you are not my king."

"If your king were to die?"

"I serve the queen as I would him."

Galehaut tilts his head and takes a step closer. "Such gallantry as yours is rare. What is your name?"

"My name is Lancelot," he says a little warily.

The rebel's eyes flash with recognition. "I have heard of you before, always in association with chivalry, loyalty, and nobility. Born a commoner but with the heart of a knight. All that you have you earned and fought for--and all because you believed it to be right."

The tip of Lancelot's sword is trembling as his exhaustion catches up with him. He licks his chapped lips. "Why did you--why do you not strike me down? You have the advantage of me."

"I would not be so sure of that," Galehaut replies softly. "Perhaps I am whole in body. But in purpose, in conviction? Not as whole as you are, I would fear."

Lancelot searches Galehaut's face for any sign that this is a deliberate deception, but his words appear to be sincere. The knight gradually lowers his sword to his side, keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent. His leg is quavering uncontrollably now; sweat trickles into his eyes.

"We have not seen the last of each other." Galehaut inclines his head. "Until we meet again, Sir Lancelot." With these final words he fades into the ranks of his soldiers, and the reality of warfare seeps back into Lancelot's awareness.

But the cries seem dimmer now, the clashes of weapons farther away. There are fewer men on the field, not all of them taken by death. In the moments before Lancelot crumples to his knees among the fallen soldiers, his world rotating before his eyes and his leg sending ribbons of agony up his body, he realizes why.

Galehaut's forces have reached the castle.

\--

The mist lends the forest an eerie quality, branches piercing the white at random, the steady clop of horses' hooves the only constant sound. Arthur concentrates on navigating the dense woods on either side of the tiny hunting track he chose to follow in place of the more obvious route, the thin trail that passes for a main road. That morning after some further interrogation and a bit of persuasion with regard to his intended treatment of Galehaut, Arthur managed to coax Caradoc into revealing that Lord Rience was not, in fact, where they were heading, but that the castle garrison and a fraction of his army were preparing an ambush to distract Arthur from riding to Camelot. The king knew he could not let Camelot fall, but neither could he abandon the captured castle and the quagmired one with Rience's whereabouts unknown. He elected to thwart the ambush, then leave half his current forces in Galehaut's former realm and ride with the rest back to his home. Now, with the shadows shifting around him and even his horse stumbling over the foliage, he hopes his decision is the right one.

A rustle up ahead catches his attention and his right hand automatically moves to cover his sword hilt. But the figure that emerges from the trees is only Merlin on his horse, gesticulating with his free hand for Arthur to call a halt. As he approaches, he leans over to tell the king that he has found the enemy forces waiting on the edges of the main road.

"They will not expect us from this side," Arthur says, but without the premature satisfaction that characterizes the inexperienced. "Follow me." He waves for Merlin to ride behind him, as much for his own peace of mind as for his manservant's safety (though perhaps the two are not so disconnected as he would have his knights believe), and signals his men-at-arms to ready themselves for combat.

Up ahead and to the left Arthur catches sight of a man crouched in the woods with his crossbow leveled towards the road. His companions come into view as the king's company draws nearer. Arthur is aware that these soldiers must know the woods better than his own, but he hopes that the element of surprise and the fighting prowess of his forces will give them enough of an advantage to quickly overtake the would-be ambushers and begin the ride back to Camelot.

Arthur gestures to his knights and they carefully fan out behind the enemy soldiers. Merlin thought Rience's men might attack from both sides of the road, but the king pointed out that if they were using crossbows--which he suspected they would for this sort of ambush, and is glad to see that he is right--it would be easy to fire at targets on the trail but accidentally hit allies on the other side.

In a few moments Camelot's men have spread out enough that Arthur directs them to halt and prepare for assault. The whole company--friend and foe alike--is holding its breath as he quietly removes his sword from its scabbard. Metal rings through the ranks of his knights as they follow suit. By the time Rience's soldiers turn at the sound, their ambushers are already upon them.

Merlin knows all is fair in war, but he cannot help the sick knot in his stomach as he stabs a man in the gut. The soldier gasps, blood bubbling in his mouth. Surprise had not even registered on his face before the blade found him. Merlin wrenches his sword from the body and averts his eyes. A battle fray where men seem faceless is one matter, but as soon as the target is a single man and not an army, death acquires a certain significance overlooked only by the rationalization that he who is the enemy forfeits his right to live.

The attack is more successful than Arthur dared to hope. Many of Rience's men die without struggle in the first wave, and in the ensuing confusion the rest of them hasten to drop their crossbows and draw their blades. But they are not as disciplined as Camelot's men-at-arms, and still shocked by the unexpected assault, faced with an enemy of superior skill, they are soon beyond fighting for their lives, electing instead to flee for them. A few of the knights give half-hearted chase, but their king judges that the retreating soldiers are too shattered to regroup, and they soon circle back. Arthur splits off half his forces to guard the area, watch the two castles, and if possible capture but not slaughter the remains of Rience's forces. The rest of his knights follow close behind him as he beats back through the foliage to the main road and rides for Camelot.

\--

Gwen spots Camelot's knights backing up from the field before Galehaut's soldiers come into view. Although she had hoped the battle would never come so close to the castle, she knows too that it is pointless to wish the truth away. Instead she joins in the cries of the crossbowmen up on the battlements and the flurry of activity that follows. On her way to fetch fresh bandages for the physician's field hospital she passes a hole in the wall of one of the passageways. Next to her a serving maid seizes a pot of boiling water from the hands of an approaching servant and thrusts the contents out onto the unfortunate assailants below. Their startled shouts blend with the din around them, rising to Gwen's ears like steam.

As she hurries along the battlements, she peers out at the reeling mess of soldiers. One man has a crossbow bolt stuck in the crack between his helmet and his pauldron, and as she watches he stumbles to the ground and is run over by his fellows. She stifles a twinge of sorrow as she rounds the corner, trying not to think that the bandages she collects in her arms cannot help him now.

She races back to the hospital, weaving past servants hauling rocks and heated sand to pitch onto the attackers below. Most of the chambermaids are tending to the wounded, some with cloths tied around their noses and mouths to ward off the stench as they clean and bind bloody injuries, the more squeamish of them preparing simple poultices or shuttling water from the well. A few of them look up as Gwen enters, their inital surprise at a queen's willingness to perform such tasks long since replaced by respect and the camaraderie that exists between women in times of war. In her simplest gown, dressing the broken arm of a groaning soldier, helping her people not through orders given from a distant throne but her work alongside them, Gwen becomes the dedicated and compassionate leader her subjects so desperately need.

A burst of commotion from one end of the room draws the attention of the maids. A shock of untidy red hair catches Gwen's eye and she recognizes Griflet standing in the doorway, panting. She finishes wrapping the bandage beneath her fingers and winds her way over to him.

"What is it, Griflet?"

"M-my lady," he croaks, and she takes a pot of clean water from a nearby serving maid and hands it to him. After a few sips and a minute for his breathing to calm, he breaks into a triumphant grin. "The k-king has arrived!"

\--

With the appearance of Arthur's forces, the odds tip in Camelot's favor. Yet though the discipline of the knights under the dragon banner is unmatched by Galehaut's men, the rebel soldiers are still well trained, formidable, and just as determined as their opponents. Arthur is surprised, then, when just before nightfall a flash of white emerges from the mist, fluttering in the slight breeze above the silhouettes of the soldiers below. There are shouts among his men of surrender, and his first thought is that this is a trick, that Galehaut will strike when the knights least expect it. Warily he orders his men-at-arms to cease their attack but remain at the ready. They gather around him, the enemies they were fighting scrambling to join their own ranks, looking just as startled as Arthur feels.

Men appear from the fog like shadows strengthening in sunlight. The white flag is indeed raised above their heads, blending with the pale gray of the sky. A tall, dark man breaks away from the company and strides towards Camelot's king, his head raised but his sword sheathed. He stops halfway between the two forces, clearly expecting the king to join him. Arthur is aware of Merlin shifting to stand a little closer to him, and he gives his hand a reassuring squeeze before he steps out to meet his foe.

"King Arthur Pendragon," Galehaut says as he approaches, but there is no venom or even mockery in his tone. "You must be an honorable king indeed to earn such loyalty from your subjects."

"I should venture to say the same," Arthur replies cautiously.

Galehaut's smile passes almost too quickly to catch. "No doubt you wonder why I meet you raising a white flag rather than a sword."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"I see no reason for my men to die needlessly. Your victory would cost you, but it would still be yours."

Arthur cannot decide if this surrender is an act of cowardice or shrewdness, but either way he is sure Galehaut is not revealing the whole truth. "Why should I believe you?" he says instead.

"Because I, too, have a sense of honor."

"Though you evidently lack a sense of dedication to your cause."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I now doubt the righteousness of my cause."

Arthur frowns faintly, unsure what to make of this enemy who is nothing like he expected. A rebel with no cause is as a horse with no rider. There is no direction, no goal, no purpose, and without these there is no concentrated effort, no rebellion. But a rebel who loses his cause? What is he to make of this?

"You do not understand," Galehaut says before Arthur can reply. "Maybe I can help." He turns and signals to his men, two of which walk up behind him, bearing a body between them. They set it down carefully in the grass before Arthur's feet and he stares down at it in confusion.

"Lancelot?" he exclaims. "What is the meaning of this?"

"He and I fought a duel. His gallantry, his nobility, his loyalty to you and your queen--I have never seen the likes of such chivalry before."

Arthur's expression is guarded. "Then why do you bring him before me?"

"Because he is the reason I fly the white flag. He has impressed me, King Arthur, and if one so honorable as he is so dedicated to you and your queen, if you share any of the qualities that he does, then surely you deserve your crown."

Arthur searches Galehaut's face for any sign of deception, yet he can find none. After a second he replies, "I have little reason to trust you, but I believe your words are true. What conditions do you ask of me for your surrender?"

"That my men will not be harmed, and that I may negotiate peace with you." Galehaut dips his head as he says this, to signify his trust and respect.

"Very well," Arthur agrees, and kneels down before Lancelot's body. He is relieved to see that the knight still breathes and orders his men to take him to the castle. As Merlin and another soldier hasten to obey, Arthur picks up Galehaut's sword, stands, and hands it back to its owner. "I am afraid I will have to hold your men prisoner until our negotiations are complete. You may stay in a guest room tonight, if you so desire, and I will meet you in my throne room tomorrow."

"You will post guards outside the door, I presume?"

"I would be a fool not to."

Galehaut actually smiles then. "I assure you I will give them no trouble."

"For both our sakes, you had better not."

The exchange is almost friendly, and for the first time in months Arthur begins to think that perhaps there is hope yet.

\--

When Arthur rides into the courtyard smeared with blood and dirt and sweat, Gwen intends to be the first to meet him. But there is still work to be done in the hospital, especially with the incoming stream of soldiers, and by the time she finishes her work and hears of the surrender, he has already disappeared for a meal and a bath. She finishes with her current patient and excuses herself to change into more appropriate attire and collect Gwydre from the nurse. The king left a family of one behind, but two will welcome him home.

Seated in their chambers, rocking Gwydre in her arms, Gwen tries not to count the minutes. She can picture Arthur walking in, proud and noble as always, see herself accepting his embrace as she introduces their child. But she cannot anticipate how she will feel when he finally is standing in the doorway with his arms open wide, expecting what she is no longer sure she can give. Of course she is relieved he is safe, glad he is home, yet all the same she does not know what she can possibly say to him of the unbidden thoughts that cross her mind.

The door slides almost noiselessly open and Arthur enters. The candlelight burnishes the edges of his hair but shadows the corners of his face, and for a long moment he does not move from the doorway. Gwen rises to her feet, still cradling Gwydre.

"Arthur," she says as she approaches. He stirs as though waking from a reverie, closing the door behind him and stepping forward to meet her.

"Gwen." This is the first time he has called in her Gwen in months, she notes absently. After a fraction of a second's hesitation he leans down and kisses her, yet he seems unsure, almost uncomfortable. His eyes dart to the baby. "And...?"

"This is Gwydre." Gwen strokes the child's temple. "Your son."

His expression is unreadable in the darkness, but when she offers him Gwydre he reaches out and accepts the sleeping bundle. He holds the baby away from him as though unsure what to do with him, and gently Gwen rearranges his arms until he is supporting the child's head in the crook of his elbow, the tiny body pressed against the warmth of his chest. Gwen watches as he stares down at his son and touches his cheek with a fingertip. Arthur does not usually express his emotions out loud, and now is no exception. She does not push him.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be here for the birth," he says finally, not meeting her eyes.

"So am I. But at least you are here now."

"He will make a very fine heir one day."

"Under the guidance of a fine king," Gwen replies, yet the words taste flat on her tongue.

When Arthur at last looks up at her, his eyes seem troubled. He passes Gwydre back, his hands awkwardly brushing against her own, and once the child is settled in her arms he clasps his fingers behind his back.

"Something...changed," he says at last.

"Something has been changing," she returns, and when he does not respond she hastens to add, "That is, something will change, now that Gwydre is here and we're together."

Arthur looks at her, and in his expression Gwen recognizes that he is fumbling for the right words to voice his thoughts. In the end he clears his throat and exhales. "I think we should get some rest..."

"Of course," Gwen says a little too quickly and deposits Gwydre in his cradle. When she turns back to Arthur, her smile is genuine--she could not be happier to see him home--but as they settle into the bed she cannot keep from thinking about that something which has indeed been changing. She only hopes that no matter what happens, in the end Gwydre will not be the only source of connection between them.

\--

With his official appointment as advisor, Merlin was given a new room slightly larger than his old one back in the physician's quarters, but more easily accessible from the corridor. It is there that Arthur asks him to wait for him and it is there that he now stands, mulling over the day's discussion with Galehaut. The so-called high prince was surprisingly willing to negotiate, civil and honest, worlds away from the rebel that once sent Arthur a message by pinning it with a crossbow bolt to the back of a soldier.

Merlin is staring out the window--his new room has one of decent size--at the spattering of rain under a low gray sky when from behind him a pair of arms steals around his midsection. After so many years watching the king stalk prey in the forest Merlin is hardly surprised that he did not hear him coming, though he cannot help from starting a little as Arthur nuzzles his neck. "I hope you remembered to close the door," he murmurs as he leans back into the embrace.

"Some things I only do behind closed doors," comes Arthur's muted response. He shifts his hands on Merlin's waist, turns him around and looks at him, then kisses him suddenly, fiercely, on the mouth. He draws his manservant to the bed, his hands running through Merlin's hair, down his back, as though to lay desperate and possessive claim to his body. Merlin is sorely tempted to let him succeed, but as Arthur draws back for an instant to breathe he puts a restraining hand on his chest.

"I don't want you to regret this," he says softly.

"I won't." Yet his manner betrays that he is troubled, torn, a feeling he is not used to dealing with.

Merlin does not move his hand from Arthur's chest. "You gave Gwen your word, once--and I know what that means to you." When the king pauses and closes his eyes, his manservant continues with a trace of guilt, "I know I didn't help much and it may be a little late..."

"No," Arthur cuts him off gently, "I understand." For a long second he does not move, then his lips graze Merlin's forehead and he folds him into his arms. They sit in silence until Arthur speaks, his breath warming Merlin's ear. "I'd like you to meet my son. His name is Gwydre."

"I'd be honored." Merlin hesitates. "But I think we ought to wait awhile."

"Don't worry, I'll talk to Gwen." When Merlin voices no reply, Arthur draws back and looks deep into his eyes. "I will make this work, Merlin. Negotiations aren't only for battlefields." He does not feign surety, but his kiss is as close to a promise as he can make.

\--

There are many matters to settle in the negotiations: compensation for misdeeds; establishment of regional leadership; pledges and demonstrations of trust. Arthur holds councils and meetings, discussing terms with his advisors, his knights, and even the soldiers at times. Between working through logistics, familiarizing himself with Galehaut and his men, and addressing the usual complications that arise after a war, he is busy enough that he asks Gwen to assume control of issues involving the injured soldiers and the families of the deceased. It is a sobering task, but a human one for which her warmth, compassion, and inner strength are well suited.

It is eight days from the end of the battle when Gwen encounters Lancelot in the corridor. With Arthur back in Camelot and her duties to attend to, she has not seen him since he was carried back after the battle, unconscious. Griflet has kept her informed of his recovery, noting its unusual speediness, but cautioning that it will be many weeks before the knight is as strong as he was before. Now that she sees him leaning against the wall with a makeshift crutch beneath his arm, Gwen thinks he may never fully recover from at least one injury.

He looks up as she approaches, her heart fluttering at his gentle smile. She darts a glance down the corridor to assure herself it is empty and reaches out to embrace him. He buries his face in her shoulder, twining a lock of her hair in his fingers.

"Where do we go from here, Gwenhwyfar?" Lancelot murmurs. "All the corridors in the world will not hide us from the eyes of Camelot."

Unsure of his intent, she steps back and scrutinizes his face. "You know as well as I do that I will not leave Camelot, and Arthur."

"Your choices are your own to make," he replies quietly, "yet as long as you make them and do not tell me, I, too, am lost. I will fool myself no longer."

Gwen falters for a second, recalling the day he returned to Camelot to find her queen. His pledge to the service of king and kingdom. The same slight hurt behind his words, but always that love, that loyalty, which so many times she has almost but not quite given back. "Neither will I fool myself," she whispers. "You have my heart, Lancelot. But Arthur has my affection, my trust--and my son."

"I do not ask you to leave them, Gwenhwyfar, only tell me if I walk this path with you in vain."

"Never in vain," she whispers, tilting her head back to meet his kiss.

Footsteps echo in the hall around the corner. Gwen and Lancelot abruptly pull apart, turning to watch a knight pass by the intersection between their corridor and the adjacent one. They exchange a quick, knowing glance, and Lancelot slips out and limps off in the same direction. Gwen watches him go and turns around to head back to her own chambers.

Arthur is standing at the other end of the corridor. Gwen stops short, her heart and stomach spiraling together into knots. He looks at her for a long moment, then turns and disappears around the corner.

Gwen stares at the empty floor, willing herself to breathe. She does not know why but her feet carry her after him, up the stairs and down another corridor to their chambers. When she reaches the doorway he is already inside the room, seated in a chair facing the window. The crimson curtains only half conceal the gray sky and billowing mist outside. He does not look back at her as she steps gingerly into the room, the slight rustle of her skirts testing the silence.

"Arthur," she says at length, her voice wavering. "Arthur, I am sorry."

He is so still that she wonders if he heard her, even though he must have; the only noise in the room is her heartbeat pulsing in her ears. She waits for him to face her, his eyes blazing, waits for him to shout her down. This quiet scares her more than his anger could.

But when he speaks his voice is almost inaudible. "I understand, Gwen." She can feel the intake of his breath as he hesitates, the decision he seems to reach as he stands.

"Do you?" She hardly dares to breathe.

"More than I can tell you." He is still facing the window.

Somehow she senses that the words are meant as much for himself as for her. "More than you can tell me," she repeats softly.

"You said yourself something has been changing."

He does not speak again for several long seconds. Tentatively she responds, "Is that it, then? We go our separate ways, you as king of Camelot, and me as--"

"As its queen," he interrupts.

Gwen blinks. "Arthur, if neither of us feels as we used to--"

"The people need a queen, Gwen." He finally turns around and approaches her. "I know of no woman better for the job than you."

She glances at the floor, then back up at his face. "And you?" she inquires softly. "What do you need?"

Arthur sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, their depths are raw with honesty. "I need you to be that queen. I need you to be Gwydre's mother. And I need you to...understand."

Gwen looks at him a second longer, then slowly nods. She reaches up and kisses him on the cheek. "I do," she whispers. And she surprises herself then, because her eyes are perfectly dry, and when he presses his lips to the back of her hand and walks out of the room she can imagine Merlin materializing at his side, where he has always been and will always be.

A moment later, that's just what he does. And it's then that the realization strikes, so sudden and stark that she almost laughs. Perhaps she should be jealous, but instead she feels only that the inevitable has at last presented itself to her--no, to she and Arthur both--and that now, at last, they are both free.

The corners of her mouth quirk upward. "Take care of him, Merlin," she murmurs to herself, and turns away.

\--

"My lord king and liege lord Arthur Pendragon, I, Galehaut, do willingly enter into your homage and faith and become your sworn man. I will serve and protect you, your queen, your heirs and successors, faithfully, and I will keep loyalty to you against all others."

"We do promise to you, as my vassal and liegeman, that we and our heirs will guarantee to you and your heirs the lands you hold of us, against all others, that you may hold said lands in peace." Arthur reaches out to accept Galehaut's proffered sword in completion of the former rebel's final oath of allegiance and homage. "You may rise," he says, and a wave of relief washes over him as Galehaut stands, bows his head, and steps back to rejoin his men. The negotiations, concessions, and formalities are at last completed, with Galehaut to remain lord of his realm in service of the king of Albion. Now all that remains is the celebratory banquet and the night of revelries that will inevitably follow.

Men file out of the throne room and head for the great hall. The servants scuttle back and forth bearing dishes laden with pottages, roasted meats, and pies fresh from the kitchens. At feasts there is usually less fruit and vegetables than there ought to be, and with the harvest poor from drought there is only a fraction as much as usual. Still, an assortment of grapes, plums, and wild berries is served alongside a selection of nuts and cheeses, complemented by bread and cakes, wine and ale. There is even a magnificent sugar sculpture in the shape of a dragon, its wings rising regally over its coiled tail, the elaborate horns on its head accenting the triumphant gleam of its dyed-gold eyes.

Seated at the ceremonial head of the table, Arthur and Gwen play the perfect role of Albion's royalty. It is clear that together they lead much more effectively than alone, and that they need each other for friendship and support, a connection seized upon by Galehaut and several of his men. But if it is also clear that the queen's most brilliant smiles are reserved for the gentle comments and chivalrous flattery of a certain injured knight, and the king's eyes stray perhaps a little too often to a certain advisor still garbed in the comical scarlet uniform of a servant (complete with an oversized feathered hat), no-one gives any indication of having noticed.

The trenchers are empty but the drink is still flowing when the men leave their chairs and begin to saunter about the hall. The women mingle with each other, sipping hippocras and laughing as a young man tries unsuccessfully to fend off the unwanted attention of a buxom serving girl. Gwen recognizes Griflet's red hair and the flaming flush of his face as the girl--clearly a little tipsy--tries to slide onto his lap. The queen excuses herself from the table, smiles apologetically to her husband, and hurries over to rescue the unfortunate squire.

Arthur watches her go, then walks over to where a handful of knights are standing and surreptitiously pulls Lancelot aside.

"You have always been a brave and loyal subject. I could not ask for a better knight--or friend."

Lancelot does not meet his gaze. "I am honored you think so well of me, sire."

The two watch Gwen adroitly lure the serving girl away, an embarrassed Griflet stammering his thanks, inaudible over the cheerful din. Arthur smiles. "She's a wonderful woman, isn't she."

"That she is," Lancelot replies softly.

Arthur claps a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "Be good to her. You're a lucky man." Then he slips away without waiting for a response, leaving the knight staring open-mouthed after him, his expression a strange mixture of shock, incredulity, and relief.

Merlin is not too difficult to spot; he is among the tallest of the servants, and the scarlet and peacock green feathers exploding from his hat make him look like a spangly, oversized shrub. Arthur catches his eye and tilts his head meaningfully toward the great doors standing open at the head of the hall. He watches him slip out into the corridor and waits for a few minutes before following.

"Is this wise?" Merlin asks worriedly as Arthur leads him past a few soldiers dozing off their drinks and a few servants still collecting trenchers to give to the poor. "You are the king, and for you to go missing from the hall..."

Arthur steps over a particularly drunken knight, fast asleep with his face in his half-empty tankard. "The revelries always last longer than my patience for them. I told Gwen I wanted to retire early tonight, and she agreed to remain in my stead. She is the queen," he continues, forestalling Merlin's protest, "and fully capable of overseeing the festivities."

"I know she is. Wait, where are you going?" Merlin scrambles to catch up as the king mounts a flight of stairs.

"To the balcony."

"But it's raining! We'll get wet!"

Arthur is too far ahead for Merlin to catch his response, but it sounds suspiciously like, "Don't be such a girl."

Up on the balcony, the rain is cool but smooth as a lover's fingers stroking the thirsty earth. Merlin approaches Arthur from behind, peering down at the slick cobblestones and a few stray lanterns swaying in the dark. A handful of knights, mere days ago battlefield foes, saunter about together, laughing.

"Well," Merlin says, "I'm glad we're finally done with the skull-cracking."

Arthur does not respond, but draws Merlin toward him and stares into his eyes for a long moment. He grasps that ridiculously feathery hat, dripping now with the wet, and slides it off his manservant's head.

"Won't people see?" Merlin murmurs as the king takes his hand.

"Let them," Arthur replies, and kisses his palm.

This time it is Merlin who leans forward to press his lips to Arthur's, Merlin who pulls him closer until even the raindrops cannot fall between them. In the warmth of Merlin's embrace Arthur feels renewed, as the earth after a drought when a storm rolls in gently, first in mist and finally in downpour. Here, at last, he is at peace.

Neither knows how long they will pass outside, tasting the sweetness of love and rain, before one or the other of them suggests they move indoors; nor how long they will spend in quiet conversation before the silence of smile and touch speaks enough. Yet somehow both of them know that dawn will find them still together, for Camelot will sleep safely tonight.

\--

Arthur pokes his head into Gwen's chambers. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes." Gwen shifts Gwydre, wrapped in blankets, to rest more comfortably against her chest. "Oh, good, Merlin is with you," she adds as he follows Arthur into the room. She'd been counting on that.

"What's this about? Our son, I presume?" Arthur's eyes soften as he looks at the child.

"It could be. But mostly it's about you. And Merlin. I just want to let you know I'm fine with whatever's going on between you two."

Arthur and Merlin exchange glances.

"With...what? What's going on between us?" Merlin's lopsided smile is perhaps a little too innocent.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Or would you like me to guess the details? Because I will." 

At least three full seconds of silence pass before Arthur says, "The _idiot_? Please," at the same time Merlin blurts, "The _prat_? Never."

Gwen fights to bite back her laughter and fails. The men clamp their mouths shut in unison. "Oh, don't look like that," she says with a grin; Merlin's expression mimics the one he had the day she caught him trying to douse a fire in the stables by pouring ale over it. (She still does not know what he was doing out there with drink and a lit candle.) "I really am fine with it."

"We're just...surprised you knew," Arthur improvises, jabbing Merlin in the ribs with an elbow.

"Well, it wasn't too hard to guess." They both jump at the voice behind them and turn to see Lancelot leaning casually against the doorway--a posture he has perfected to draw attention from his crippled right leg.

"Even the knights are after us," mutters Merlin. "If we're quick, maybe we can get out of Camelot before all of Albion finds out."

"Lancelot, you're embarrassing them." But Gwen is clearly amused, even as she shoos him away with her free hand. He gives her an exaggerated bow and a grin before backing out of the room. "Now calm down, both of you," she says, returning her attention to the king and his manservant. "You look like rabbits in a fox's den." To demonstrate her lack of concern, she cradles the baby in her arms and bumps his nose with hers. "We're not foxes, are we, Gwydre? No."

Arthur watches the queen entertain their son with a sing-song voice, and the tension eases out of his body. Perhaps his hopes for the future are not so outlandish, he thinks, as long as there are people like mild-mannered, kind-hearted Lancelot, and Gwen, sweet and admirable Gwen.

"Would you like to hold him?" Gwen's words pull Arthur from his thoughts; she is offering the child to Merlin, who takes a step back, hands raised in a gesture of protest or surrender--either one seems appropriate.

"Um, no, I really shouldn't."

"He won't hurt you."

"Are you sure about that? He looks pretty vicious to me."

Gwen darts a glance at Arthur and lowers her voice. "You're part of the family now, Merlin. Part of his family. You'll be like a second father to him."

"Or a third."

Arthur smirks. Gwen ignores him. "Or a third. Just...please. Do this for him."

Merlin does not know if "him" refers to the baby or the king, but either way he finds himself reaching out to accept the bundle. Gwydre is no larger than a fresh loaf of bread from the castle kitchens, half as warm but twice as heavy, resting now with his eyes closed in his crumpled face. He stirs slightly, and Merlin is suddenly struck by how delicate he is, this new life.

As if sensing his thoughts, Arthur steps up behind him and says, "Don't worry. In time he'll grow up strong, like his father the king."

"And just as supercilious, I'm sure."

Arthur's response never meets his lips, for right that moment he notices the baby staring at the two new faces above him. Gwydre's skin is only a shade lighter than Gwen's, and next to it his cobalt eyes seem even brighter. Merlin allows himself a smile and carefully holds the child out to Arthur.

"There's a good boy," Arthur coos, cradling the baby in his arms. "Don't listen to your Uncle Merlin. He's just jealous of your good looks."

Merlin's mouth works. "Uncle?!" he sputters at last, appalled.

Arthur laughs. "Well, he can't call you father if he's going to call me that."

"Yes, but... _uncle_?! It sounds ridiculous!"

"Then it's very fitting."

Gwydre suddenly lets out a lusty wail, and Arthur's smug expression evaporates into one of alarm.

"See? He agrees with me," Merlin exclaims as Gwen hastens to Arthur's side and gathers up the squirming bundle. "I'm not his uncle. I'm his...guardian."

"I thought you were _my_ guardian," Arthur murmurs, his arm stealing around Merlin's waist.

"By destiny, not by choice." But his words are light-hearted, and he leans into Arthur's shoulder, marveling that he can do so in public. Well, not exactly in public, but in front of the queen, anyway, which is close enough. The king presses a kiss into his hair, and as the two watch Gwen smooth the baby's tiny brown curls and sing to him, Merlin is sure the grin on his own face looks absolutely ridiculous.

\--

When interests conflict, there is war. There are negotiations that fail to address the cause of contention, strategies that reveal nothing and deceptions that hide the same. There are swords bloodied with misunderstanding, battlefields strewn with broken promises. Only when the dead threaten to outnumber the living are truces wrought with wary acknowledgement. But this is not peace.

Gwen knows this as she appears at the entrance to the courtyard, watching Gwydre take his first tottering steps straight out of Lancelot's arms. The boy falls, but before he can cry, Arthur swings him up and spins him in a circle, his laughter blending with the child's shrieks of joy.

Yes, Gwen thinks, the process will take time. There will be trials and tribulations aplenty, and this new arrangement has so far taken only a few wobbly steps. Nothing will be as it used to be, but in the end the kingdom will stand the straighter for it. She is sure of this, for when the needs of each side cease to stand in the way of each other--when what one side asks of the other is not more than the other can give--when there is unity in effort and intention--then there is peace.

Lancelot is holding Gwydre under the arms and lowering him to the ground for another try. From his place at Arthur's side, Merlin catches Gwen's eye and waves her over. She smiles, gathers up her skirts, and runs to join them.


End file.
